Mr. Bloomsbury (Mister)

“Right. So what’s next?”

I sighed and put down my glass. “I have no idea. I suppose I keep spending time with my father and wait for the right moment to ask him. I just hope . . . I hope by asking him, I don’t undo what we’ve built. I came to London to manipulate him into giving me money. That’s not a very nice thing to do.”

“You had your reasons. And like you said, he owes you.”

“I know but it feels . . . I just wish I could pay myself. With the new job, if I save hard, work hard, hit my targets and get my bonus, I think I can get the money in a little over a year.”

"That’s amazing.” Natalie bit at her bottom lip, a nervous tell she’d been unable to break since we were kids. “Listen, I’ve been wondering whether I should tell you this, but . . . you remember Caterina Costa from—”

“I remember.” Who could forget Caterina Costa? She was one of those girls all Italians in New York knew. She’d gone to Harvard on a scholarship, and the rest of us would never live up to her accomplishments.

“I ran into her yesterday. She said her mom ran into Mamma Isabella at church, and Mamma Isabella said she’d been talking with your mom, and your mom had mentioned her knee was so bad she was going to have to leave her job at Christina’s because—”

“She has to take the subway to that job.” My heart pulled in my chest. Stairs had been a problem for a while.

“Right. And it’s been a problem for a couple of years but apparently it’s gotten worse in the last few months.”

“How much worse?” Irritation pinched at me. Why hadn’t my mom told me? Probably because she thought I’d rush home. She thought I’d come to England to follow my dreams. She didn’t know I was here for her.

“Apparently she’s going to give notice at the end of the month.”

* * *

It was like a brick had dropped through my stomach. Mamma had been dreading the moment she wasn’t fit enough to work but not ill enough to qualify for the surgery under her insurance. I wanted to book the first flight home and cook meatballs for her, take care of her—but that wouldn’t help in the long-run. I was going to have to suck it up and ask Des. There was no other way. Yes, I could probably supplement my mom’s income to cover the second job, but her knee was clearly getting worse more quickly than I expected. And what would happen if I got fired? “I’ll figure it out. That’s what the Rossi girls do.”

“You couldn’t ask Andrew?” she asked.

I laughed. “No. He’s my boss, not my friend.”

“I heard your mom met him when you came to New York. Did she like him?”

“Maybe. She worries about me.”

“She just wants you to have a better life than she did.”

“I’m not nineteen. And Andrew would never—” I didn’t need to defend him. We weren’t together. I wasn’t going to end up pregnant and penniless.

“You seem sad.”

I sighed. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I miss him. I wish I didn’t need this job so much.” Not that it would have mattered if I’d turned the job down. The fact that Andrew had chosen having a CEO rather than me told me everything I needed to know. Sure, Goode had wanted me as CEO too, but he hadn’t made it a condition of the sale. Andrew could have pushed back, but he didn’t. He wasn’t the man for me.

“I just know you’re going to meet someone.”

I didn’t want to meet just anyone. I wanted Andrew to want me more than he wanted a vacancy filled. I wanted him to want me like I wanted him.

My mother had warned me about men who seemed too good to be true. The ones that made you feel like princesses. They were the ones who had the power to break your heart when they walked away.

“Come visit me,” I said.

“I will. I promise. Tell me you’re coming back for Thanksgiving.” How could she be thinking about Thanksgiving? We were barely in May.

I laughed. “Honestly, I haven’t given it a lot of thought. I can’t imagine not being—”

“Wait a second,” Natalie interrupted.

“Honestly, I’ll try and make it. I just haven’t—”

“I’m not talking about Thanksgiving. I’m talking about an idea. I mean, it might be crazy but it might—you said that what you’re earning now means that if you save hard enough, you might have enough money to pay for your mom’s surgery in just over a year, right?”

“Right,” I replied.

“And you haven’t asked you father for the money yet because there hasn’t been the right moment, or you feel awkward and because . . . Well, you’re not great at asking for help at the best of times.”